“Oh! go on! Go on!” she whispered, swaying in her seat, then feeling Philip’s arm about her. They rose, as though borne on a wave of wild weather, to the top of the hill. They had now only the straight road; they could see the station lights. Then the thunder, as though enraged at their persistence, broke into a shattering clatter—the soil, the hedges, the fields, the sky crumbled into rain; a great lash of storm whipped them in the face, and the pony, frightened by the thunder, broke from Katherine’s hand, ran wildly through the dark, crashed with a shuddering jar into the hedge. Their lamps fell; the ‘jingle’, after a moment’s hesitation, slipped over and gently dropped them on to the rain-soaked ground.
Katherine was on her feet in an instant. She saw that by a happy miracle one of the lamps still burned. She went to the pony, and found that, although he was trembling, he was unhurt. Philip was trying to turn the ‘jingle’ upright again.
“Quick!” she cried. “Hang the lamp on the cart. We must run for it—the shaft’s broken or something. There’s no time at all if we’re to catch that train. Run! Run! Phil! There’s sure to be someone coming in by the train who’ll see the ‘jingle’.”
They ran; they were lifted by the wind, beaten by the rain, deafened by the thunder, and Katherine as she ran knew that by her side was her enemy:
“You shan’t go! You shan’t go! I’ve got you still!”
She could hear, through the storm, some voice crying, “Phil! Phil! Come back! Come back!”
Her heart was breaking, her eyes saw flame, her knees trembled, she stumbled, staggered, slipped. They had reached the white gates, had passed the level crossing, were up the station steps.
“It’s in! It’s in!” gasped Philip. “Only a second!”
She was aware of astonished eyes, of the stout station-master, of someone who shouted, of a last and strangely distant peal of thunder, of an open door, of tumbling forward, of a whistle and a jerk, and then a slow Glebeshire voice:
“Kind o’ near shave that was, Miss, I’m thinkin’.”